


Blue Skin

by draculard



Category: Star Wars: Thrawn Series - Timothy Zahn (2017)
Genre: Art Museums, Awkward Flirting, Gen, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, One-Sided Attraction, Unrequited Crush
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-09
Updated: 2020-11-09
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:34:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27465001
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/draculard/pseuds/draculard
Summary: Faro noticed the Pantoran as soon as she and Thrawn walked into the interactive art display. What shedidn'tnotice, not until twenty minutes had gone by, was that Thrawn was checking the Pantoran out.
Relationships: Karyn Faro & Thrawn | Mitth'raw'nuruodo, Thrawn | Mitth'raw'nuruodo/Original Male Character(s)
Comments: 19
Kudos: 50





	Blue Skin

When they stepped out of the meeting, Thrawn and Faro still had four hours until their shuttle was scheduled to pick them up from the public docks. Automatically, Faro’s eyes strayed across the street to the cantina, but she said nothing; she waited silently as Thrawn powered on his datapad and tilted it so he could see the screen despite the glare from the sun.

After a moment of studying something Faro couldn’t see, he lowered the datapad and gazed down the street, his eyes far away and his thumb brushing over the edge of the datapad in an absent gesture.

“Commodore...” he said, his voice neutral. 

Faro braced herself for whatever new Imperial activity he’d found in the area. A morale event on-base? Some sort of training exercise? A hand-to-hand combat seminar?

“The capital’s largest art museum is only five grids from here,” Thrawn said. He turned his gaze on Faro, blank red eyes holding her hostage. “You are welcome to join me if you wish. Otherwise, I will meet you at the docks in four hours.”

He waited politely for her to answer, but for a moment, all Faro could do was blink. It took her a second or two to get over the shock that her commanding officer wasn’t insisting they do something utterly mind-numbing and military-related with their spare time — and once she got over that, she had to seriously consider whether visiting an art museum was really something she wanted to do with Thrawn.

She eyed the cantina again … but she was in uniform, so with a quiet sigh, she nodded and gestured for Thrawn to lead the way.

One hour into the visit, she politely requested that Thrawn end his monologue on local art and culture, and Thrawn — his voice hoarse from sixty minutes of non-stop, quiet talking — simply nodded and acquiesced. He seemed unoffended by the request; perhaps it was one he’d heard before, or perhaps he simply noticed the strain on Faro’s face and decided it was best not to push her with further tactical observations. From then on, they were mostly silent; Faro stuck by Thrawn’s side, moving only when he was finished studying the artwork at hand and directed his attention to something else.

Two hours in, they reached the museum’s sector-famous interactive wing, and that was when things changed.

Lights and colored water displays flashed and flowed through the room, while full-color three-dimensional holos of famous artworks spanned the hallway, each one large enough for multiple people to stand inside. The domes over each artwork allowed for an immersive experience, one that made it feel like Faro had stepped into a particular painting each time. All around them, people talked in low murmurs, their voices almost drowned out by the music filtering through speakers overhead and in the walls.

They’d been standing inside a particular dome for twenty minutes when Faro realized Thrawn wasn’t studying the artwork at all. 

She glanced over at him, following his gaze to a man who’d entered the chamber not long before them and hadn’t yet left. Thrawn’s eyes were hooded, his face impassive and difficult to read, but he watched the other man with the same quiet, studious interest he’d heretofore shown only to art.

Subtly, Faro watched the other man, too. He stood at the back of the dome, leaning against a plastoid pillar with his hands clasped over a sketchbook in front of him. There were pastel streaks over his hands and golden tattoos crisscrossing his face. Blue-black hair was swept back from his forehead, and the light from the holos turned his blue skin the same deep indigo shade as Thrawn’s.

If it weren’t for his eyes — yellow irises swimming in normal human-esque whites, nothing like the sharp red glow of Thrawn’s — Faro would almost think he was the same species as the Grand Admiral. She watched as he turned his head from one direction to the other, making easy, outgoing conversation with the elderly tourists on either side of him. 

He was knowledgeable about art, Faro noted through a few minutes of eavesdropping. He was familiar with the man who’d painted this work as well as with the woman who turned it into an interactive display; he was perhaps a professor at the local art institute. He came here to meditate and sketch, he said.

“Ooh,” said the old woman next to him. “May we see?”

“Of course,” said the Pantoran, his voice warm and enthusiastic. He didn’t sound the least bit reluctant, which was a sure sign of confidence in his talents. Faro heard the shuffle of flimsi as he opened his sketchbook to show them his work; when she glanced over her shoulder, she saw the elderly couple leaning forward, making appreciative noises as they took in each sketch. 

“Think he’s any good?” Faro murmured.

Thrawn, who had been quietly watching the Pantoran man as well, stiffened and wiped the wistful expression off his face, turning his eyes back toward the display. “Come again?” he said, his voice unreadable.

Faro eyed him for a moment before adjusting her own posture as well. She straightened her shoulders, which were starting to ache a little from standing all day. “The artist,” she said, keeping her voice low and watching Thrawn’s face. His eyes flickered the same way they did when he was forced to improvise solutions mid-battle. “Do you think he’s any good?” Faro asked.

It took Thrawn so long to answer that one would think he’d been asked a serious tactical head-scratcher. 

“Without seeing his work, it is impossible to say,” he said finally. 

“Oh,” said Faro, her tone all innocent surprise. She swiveled her eyes until she could just barely see the Pantoran in her periphery, making sure he wasn’t looking their way. “I assumed you’d gotten a glimpse at his sketchbook at some point, sir.”

Thrawn spared her a quick, quelling glance. “We are not acquainted,” he said with a slight lilt at the end, asking her an unspoken question: _So why would you think I’d seen his work?_

“I see, sir,” said Faro with a nod. “It’s just that you’ve been checking him out for the past twenty minutes, so I naturally assumed…”

She had the intense pleasure of watching Thrawn’s eyes widen. Sure, they only widened a little, and his face went straight back into neutral mode afterward, but still, Faro felt a sense of fiery victory well up inside her at the sight.

“He’s been checking you out, too, sir,” she told him quietly.

Thrawn scoffed, but for a moment he looked almost flustered. Faro felt a foreign excitement — the excitement of being a good wingman, she supposed — rising inside her. Suddenly, it was difficult not to smile.

“You should ask to see his work,” she urged him.

Thrawn shook his head firmly.

“You _should_ ,” said Faro, leaning closer to him. She was about to bump her shoulder against his when Thrawn shifted away, silently reminding her of their ranks — and that they were both in uniform. Accepting this, Faro settled back into her original stance and tried to mitigate her own excitement a little. “He already agreed to show the old couple, so you know he won’t say no to you,” she said under her breath, so the Pantoran wouldn’t hear. “It would be a good way to make an introduction.”

“I don’t wish to be introduced,” said Thrawn, but the dazed expression on his face told Faro otherwise.

“Two more hours till we have to leave,” Faro reminded him, making a big show of looking at her chrono. “Plenty of time for a quick—”

Thrawn put two fingers over the face of her chrono. “Sst,” he said.

“Did you just _shush_ me, sir?”

“You are disturbing the integrity of the display,” said Thrawn, his voice stiff. The skin over his cheekbones had turned a darker shade of blue. He seemed to be very deliberately keeping his eyes forward, as if resisting the urge to glance at the Pantoran again.

“I’m disturbing the integrity?” said Faro, delighted. Thrawn didn’t dignify this with an answer; he deftly turned off her chrono’s light before moving away. “What, by talking?” Faro asked. She glanced over her shoulder and gestured at the Pantoran. “ _He’s_ talking louder than I am, sir. Go admonish _him_.”

Thrawn looked very much like he wanted to shush her again. He refused to glance back, but Faro could see the Pantoran watching them now, his lips curled up in an open, curious smile. He’d caught the drift of what was going on, she supposed — or at least, he’d figured out that Thrawn wanted to talk to him, perhaps see his work, but was too—

She snorted and turned away at the thought, but really, it was accurate. Thrawn was too _shy_ to go flirt with him.

The snort turned into a wheezing laugh that Faro tried to stifle against her fist. She was dimly aware of Thrawn glaring at her.

“Sorry, sir,” she managed.

Clearly, Thrawn wasn’t in the mood to accept an apology. He turned his eyes back to the display, his jaw tight. Faro bit the inside of her cheek to hold back a smile and studied Thrawn, trying to suss out his body language.

He really _had_ been checking out the Pantoran, she decided. Perhaps he could have convinced her there was an above-board reason for it — he could have claimed he suspected the Pantoran was a Rebel, for example — but he hadn’t done so, and his blush was damning evidence against him. She suspected the combination of familiar blue skin with obvious artistic interest had created a pull so strong it was like a tractor beam. Thrawn couldn’t resist.

If he’d been anyone else, Faro would have simply accepted it when he said no to being introduced. She generally had no interest in playing matchmaker … but this was _Thrawn_ , who had never shown interest in _anyone_ before, and who most of the Chimaera’s crew considered to be as sexless and un-romantic as a battle droid. She studied the tension in his shoulders and jaw, trying to determine whether his unwillingness was born of simple nerves or something more serious.

She peeked behind Thrawn’s back, where his hands were clasped the same way he sometimes stood before the viewport during battle. She could see sweat on his open palm. Nerves, then. Craning her neck, she met the Pantoran’s eye and winked, earning a surprised smile in return.

Shifting her attention back to Thrawn, she murmured, “If it’s your uniform you’re worried about, I already saw him talking to a pair of ensigns who came in earlier. He’s got nothing against Imperials, sir.”

Thrawn’s lips thinned. “I’m not here for a dalliance, Commodore,” he said. The blush intensified.

“Haven’t left the dome yet, though,” Faro pointed out. “Plenty of other interactive displays here, sir.”

If possible, his posture stiffened even further. “I’m not finished studying this one,” he said, his voice cold but utterly unconvincing.

“Studying the artwork?” asked Faro, one eyebrow raised. “Or studying the artist?”

He turned to her in exasperation — and Faro caught sight of the Pantoran artist making his way toward them at the same time. 

“Commodore—” Thrawn started.

“Sir,” said Faro, calmly but firmly cutting him off, “think of something charming to say. Quick.”

Whatever his admonishment might have been, it died on his lips. He stared at her in horrified comprehension, going absolutely still as he realized the Pantoran man must be heading his way. 

“Something cute,” Faro suggested.

She could see the gears turning helplessly in Thrawn’s head.

 _Oh, God,_ she thought, _he can’t think of anything cute._

“Tell him there’s something wrong with your comlink,” Faro said in a whisper. Thrawn’s eyebrows furrowed.

“I doubt he’s an expert in comlink repair. I certainly don’t wish to feign helplessness—”

“Because you don’t have his number in it,” Faro explained. “It’s a pick-up line.”

She watched exasperation flood back in, replacing the brief look of horror on Thrawn’s face. “That seems like a _severe_ tactical error, Commodore,” he said, and Faro was just starting to smile when the Pantoran came up behind Thrawn.

He was smiling — a charming, wide, hopeful smile. He’d fixed his hair before coming over. His posture tried to scream confidence but screamed butterflies-in-the-stomach instead. Just as Faro made eye contact with him and started to back away, giving the two men some privacy, the Pantoran reached out and clapped his hand down on Thrawn’s shoulder, leaving a small smear of green pastel behind.

Thrawn took a quick breath and turned, his eyes flaring wide again. Faro’s smile grew bigger with anticipation.

But the Pantoran’s smile withered and died.

“Oh,” he said weakly. 

Thrawn’s hands went absolutely still behind his back. Faro’s smile died, too, and in her head she heard an echo of the Pantoran’s voice, his tone killing her hopes. 

The Pantoran’s eyes were fixed on Thrawn’s — glowing red staring into gold. For one horrible moment, his face was open and easy to read, projecting surprise — and then horror — and then revulsion before he attempted to pull himself back together. “Oh,” he said again, flatly, not quite recovering his composure. He snatched his hand back from Thrawn’s shoulder and glanced away. “I thought—”

Neither Thrawn nor Faro said a word.

“I thought you were … somebody else,” the Pantoran said, deciding on an excuse. He was already turning away. For a moment, he seemed to equivocate over his options — stay to study the artwork further or go — before beating a retreat from their dome without a backward glance.

For a moment, throughout the dome, there was silence. The chatter around them had stopped as everyone watched the encounter. Now, Faro circled around Thrawn, trying to catch a glimpse of his face. 

He let her study him. His face was impassive, unreadable. His posture hadn’t changed.

But still, Faro bit her lip, feeling like she ought to treat him with kid gloves. 

“Shall we go?” he asked, his voice steady.

“Ah … yes,” said Faro. “Yes, sir.”

She inclined her head and gestured for him to lead the way. They went the same way the Pantoran had, but Faro caught sight of him entering another dome not far away and was glad when Thrawn quietly decided to leave the interactive wing entirely. In silence, they crossed the hallway to a different wing devoted to ancient statues from a now-defunct local monarchy.

“I’m sorry,” said Faro after entirely too much time had passed. Her face flamed with second-hand embarrassment. Thrawn stationed himself in front of one of the statues, and for the life of her, she couldn’t tell if he was actually studying it or not.

“Many people are frightened by my eyes on the first meeting,” said Thrawn evenly, as if he was entirely unbothered by it. 

“Still,” said Faro. 

He gave a minute shrug, making the smear of pastel on his shoulder jump. Faro eyed it for a moment before moving closer, quietly rubbing it out of existence with a spritz of hand sanitizer and the pad of her thumb. Thrawn’s face darkened a little, but he said nothing as she worked, nor when she moved away.

“He thought you were a fellow Pantoran, I suppose,” said Faro, watching his eyes flicker over the planes of the statue.

“Yes,” said Thrawn. 

They stared at the statue, an awkward silence coming between him.

“He’s probably a lousy artist, anyway,” Faro said. “You deserve someone better than that.”

Thrawn sighed. “I’m certain his work was more than adequate,” he said. “His sketchbook was full and he was well-informed on local art. Clearly he takes time to hone his craft.”

“Well, he’s still an asshole,” said Faro. Thrawn’s expression didn’t change; his eyes remained fixed on the statue.

“He was only frightened,” he said softly, without judgment. 

Obviously, no one had ever taught Thrawn how to be comforted after a rejection. Faro shook her head and leaned closer; this time, he didn’t stop her from bumping her shoulder against his.

“Plenty of stars in the sky, sir,” she said as a final reassurance. “You’ll find somebody.”

“Yes,” said Thrawn with maddening confidence. “I’m very attractive, once one grows used to the eyes.”

“Oh,” said Faro. She glanced down at his clasped hands, watching as he rubbed his thumb against his wrist in slow circles. She’d seen him make that gesture before — usually when something unexpected happened in battle, or when he got caught up in political conversations he didn’t quite understand.

“I found his eyes uncanny as well,” Thrawn claimed, his voice turning even softer as he glanced away. Faro suspected he was lying. Maybe he did find the Pantoran’s eyes a little unsettling, but the allure of his blue skin and blue-black hair -- especially after so long away from whatever planet Thrawn called home -- must have made the minor details of the golden eyes and facial tattoos inconsequential.

But for the Pantoran … even if he did miss home, even if he did miss seeing people who looked like him, he could always go back. Pantora was only a few hops away in any hyperspace-capable vehicle. Once he’d seen those red eyes, he had no reason to stay.

Faro cleared her throat, which suddenly felt tight and dry. Thrawn’s gaze remained distant, as if he hadn’t heard her. His eyes only flickered when she raised her hand and pointed at the statue before them.

“What does this one tell you, sir?” she asked, striving for a tone of polite curiosity.

For a long moment, Thrawn didn’t answer her. He glanced at her briefly, studying her face, maybe considering whether he should remind her that she herself had banned him from speaking about art only an hour or so ago. Faro pretended not to notice, keeping her expression neutral and respectful as she waited for Thrawn to answer.

Slowly, he raised a hand and indicated the blunt edge of the statue. “Do you see how the grain here oscillates, indicating the use of several different sizes and shapes of blades?” he asked.

“Yes, sir,” said Faro, standing on tip-toe to see.

She studied the statue as Thrawn continued his lecture. She didn’t interrupt him, but she gave responses when she was supposed to, and she made speculations whenever he invited them. During it all, whenever she knew for certain that his eyes were fixed on the work of art before them, she cut her gaze his way and watched the tension drain from his posture one increment at a time.

Breathing a quiet sigh of relief, Faro turned her attention back to the statue again.


End file.
